


Almost Lover

by Starie_Writes



Series: Fixed Stars [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Not Canon Compliant, Parent Tony Stark, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spy Stuff, Spyjinks, Strangers to Friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starie_Writes/pseuds/Starie_Writes
Summary: Sophie Stark doesn’t believe in soulmates, despite the inky black scrawled across her skin that says hers is waiting for her somewhere.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place roughly six months after the events of the Avengers (May 2012) and before the start of CA:TWS (Approximately May 2014 per this amazing Tumblr post https://end-o-the-line.tumblr.com/post/174661489486/trying-to-track-the-winter-soldier-through-both ).  
> It's basically a jumble of excepts and interludes that show how Steve and Sophie get to where they are at the start of Fixed Stars (even though I'm sort of writing both concurrently.) I'll try to date everything at the top just for clarity's sake.

September 2012

 

  
"I hate Wednesdays. They are pointless and should be stricken from the week." SHIELD Agent Melanie Mather fell dramatically against the wall of the elevator.

  
"You do not hate Wednesday," Sophie Stark replied with a chuckle, pressing the button for the 35th floor. "You hate tac training. If training was on Tuesday..."

  
"Wednesdays are a confluence of evil!"

  
"A confluence of evil?" Sophie raised her eyebrows, "That's a bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

  
"Yes! EVIL!" Melanie started, "First they make us do tactical training...why? I sit at a desk all day. Why do I need to get my ass kicked by uppity field agents on a weekly basis? Then we have to meet with The Kraken at like the worst time possible...and....AND," her voice pitched sharply, “to add insult to injury, I have to have dinner with my mother on Wednesdays. If she reminds me that my sister’s soulmate is a congressman one more time..."

  
"Ok...apparently that was an appropriate use of confluence," Sophie smiled at her new officemate. They'd been sharing what had formerly been a supply closet for six weeks. New York had changed everything for Sophie. Sure, there was the whole aliens falling from a giant hole in the sky thing, but for Sophie it was the fact that her father had an actual total meltdown when he found out she'd been working for SHIELD. She'd sort of assumed the whole thing would blow over once space aliens weren't falling on their heads, but then Phil Coulson had died and well...motherfucking aliens. After the invasion, Sophie had found herself permanently reassigned -at the request of the director- to the Triskellion and she spent three months in the cubicle farm. It was awful and boring and lonely.

It was only recently that she'd finally been re-assigned to North African Intelligence and moved out of cubicle hell. Sophie liked Melanie who, despite her tendency for melodramatics, was kind and surprisingly efficient. The low rumble of voices crashed into them when the elevator spilled them out on the 35th floor of the Triskellion; which housed the facility's cafeteria. The cafeteria took up the entire floor and sort of reminded Sophie of some sort of inverted mall food court; with tables along the windows and the food stations forming a circle in the center of the room. Melanie continued to chatter as they made their way across the room.

  
"Is it quiet in here?" Sophie interrupted, grabbing a bottle of shockingly green juice.

  
"Maybe a little, I bet all the strike teams are out on missions or something," Melanie answered with an unconcerned shrug, "How can you drink that stuff?"

  
"My diet is eighty-six percent prepackaged sugar and overpriced coffee. At least now I can pretend I had a vegetable today," Sophie laughed as they approached the checkout. She pressed her thumb to the biometric reader, which chirped happily, and moved aside. "Seriously though...it's usually so loud in here you can't hear yourself think." Sophie looked around the room and spotted three members of Strike Team Echo at the table where agents from Intelligence usually ate. That had forced Intelligence into Tech Division's space and Tech had crowded in with Base Operations. In the middle of it all, at one of Echo Team's usual tables, all alone Steve Rogers -Captain freaking America- sat calmly eating.

  
Melanie jabbed Sophie in the side with her elbow indicating the Captain first then directing her towards a table of their colleagues, "There's the reason it's so quiet."

  
Sophie and Melanie squeezed around a table with a junior tech division agent and two of their own teammates, Brady Tyler and Ian Hall. Sophie watched Steve silently as the others whispered around her. He sat in the middle of a sea of empty tables ignoring the stares and whispers; elbows propped on the table and head down, tense and on guard. She watched a junior agent from Sci Ops approach him timidly. She couldn't hear them, but Rogers smiled wearily at the girl and she scampered away back to her twittering friends.

  
"This is ridiculous," Sophie muttered.

  
"What?" Ian looked up at her.

  
"We're all just sitting here staring at him like he's a museum exhibit," she grumbled.

  
"Isn't he, kind of?" Brady Tyler quipped with a laugh. "I mean he's Captain fucking America...what do you expect?"

  
Sophie shot him a withering glance and stood, "Don't be an ass, Brady," she rolled her eyes. She grabbed her juice and took a deep breath. Approaching Steve Rogers felt a lot like the time Coulson made her spar with Natasha, which had ended with Sophie flat on her back before Coulson had finished saying “Go”. She pulled out a chair at his table and sat; close enough to talk, but not right next to him. "Hi..." her voice was thin and high pitched. Anxious. She coughed, "Hi...Can I join you?" she asked.

  
"I don't have a pen," he sighed heavily.

  
"Huh?" she blinked. "I mean...What?"

  
"If you want an auto-"

  
"Oh no," she smiled, "I don't. I mean...is that what she wanted? I just...," Sophie shrugged. "I mean if you want me to go and leave you in peace I can, but that'll be suuuper embarrassing. For me I mean and..."

  
"Ok-" he held up a hand in a placating gesture, "Sure."

  
"Sorry... I ramble...when I'm nervous."

  
Steve scratched the back of his neck and smiled at her, "Don't worry about it. I'm Steve."

  
"Sophie," she held out her hand, "Sophie Stark."

  
"Stark?" Steve choked slightly, "As in..."

  
"Tony?" she asked missing quietly remorseful look the crossed his face. "Yes...he's...." she sighed heavily and dropped her head onto her shoulders with a sigh. "He's my dad."

  
"I didn't know Tony had kids," his tone was neutral.

  
"An alien invasion isn't really the best time for twenty questions, is it?" she asked with a shrug.

  
Silence stretched between them awkwardly. Sophie fidgeted with her straw, "I actually..."

  
"I have to..." Steve started at the same time, "Please,” he gestured for her to continue. 

  
"I have a meeting...well I'm listening in on a meeting...I have to go," she told him. "But … I’m a reasonably normalish human who won’t stare at you like you’re from Krypton. If you ever want a friend give me a call." She pulled a pen from where it was attached to her id badge and scribbled her number on a napkin, "It was nice to meet you, Captain Rogers.”

  
"You too..." he managed as she slipped away.

+++

 

Sophie slipped through the hallway and stopped at the second door on her right. Punching Barton's entry code into the access pad she shouldered open the heavy door and slipped into the darkened room beyond. Strike Team Delta's office was on the 23rd floor. Sophie always thought using office to describe Clint and Natasha's space was a misnomer and implied actual paperwork got done at actual desks. In reality the space was a glorified dorm room slash gym slash operation planning room; a large multipurpose room that had five sets of bunk beds bolted to the walls with desks and bookshelves taking up the remainder of the available wall space. Gym equipment lined the one full wall of windows and the floor was squishy and rubberized. The strike team spaces were identical, built for a team of ten, which had always made Delta's space seem almost comically large. Now, since New York, the room didn't seem only ridiculously large, but overwhelmingly empty. Barton was "on leave" indefinitely and Natasha took mission after mission, returning only long enough to debrief and refuel.

  
She'd come down to avoid the after work masses in the Triskellion's main gym. She'd promised an agent on the Mid-Asian Intelligence desk she'd cover his swing shift so he could help his oldest daughter move into her dorm room at George Washington. She had about an hour to report; just enough time for a quick run, but not if she had to wait in the main gym for equipment to be available. Leaving the lights low, she pressed her headphones in, but stopped short when she saw Steve Rogers moving around a punching bag that had been strung up at the far end of the room. She watched him as pummeled the bag and made a mental note to tell Dad that the new Kevlar weave on the bags could take a beating. She cleared her throat heavily.

  
“Mr. Rogers…Captain…” she sighed and pressed a hand to her face. “Can I just call you Steve?”

  
“Cap is…” he started.

  
“That’s your rank…or call sign I guess…no one goes around calling Clint Hawkeye all the time...” He looked at her pensively, but didn’t say anything. “And I can’t with Mr. Rogers because -and I don’t expect anyone to have even mentioned this to you- but there was a show. A kid’s show. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” she sang the first bar, “the guy was Mr. Rogers and he was this super kindly grandfatherly type. There were puppets and…I’m rambling again.”

  
“Yes ma’am,” he nodded, “Steve is fine.”

  
“One of these days I will speak to you in something that is not a run-on sentence,” she sighed heavily. “I’m sorry for interrupting. I didn’t expect anyone else to be down here.”

  
“How’d you get in here anyway?” he asked suspiciously.

  
“Clint never changed his entry code before he left,” she said with a shrug. “Natasha doesn’t mind if I come down here.”

  
“You’re friends with Natasha?”

  
“More than acquaintances, less than friends…I’ve known her a long time,” Sophie offered.

  
“She told me I could trust you.”

  
“You asked about me?” Sophie asked looking shocked. Steve rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and chuckled. “What else did she say?” Sophie grinned teasingly.

  
“That you speak a dozen languages and you would not have made a terrible field agent.”

  
“Sixteen,” she corrected, “I speak sixteen languages, but that’s a fairly ringing endorsement from Natasha.”

  
“I got that impression,” he smiled.

  
She stepped up onto the treadmill and clicked it to a moderate walking pace before turning to face him again, walking backwards, "So..."

  
“Thank you,” he said, interrupting, “for the other day.”

  
“This place is like Mean Girls 3: Spy Agency,” she said with a shrug, “and I’ve been the new kid before.”

  
“I don’t…” he gestured inarticulately, “I have no idea what that means.”

  
“You should start a list,” she suggested.

  
“I have one,” he grumbled.

  
“I meant what I said,” she told him, “If you need someone to talk to who isn’t Natasha or your SHIELD-issue therapist…”

  
“I’m fine,” he responded quickly.

  
“Can I tell you a spy school secret?” she asked.

  
“You went to spy school?” he looked incredulous.

  
“SHIELD Academy,” she smiled, “Double Major in Linguistic Profiling and Mechanical Engineering. Also in you know being a spy. Anyway, my spy school secret is that telling someone you’re fine is like the number one way to convince them you’re not.”

  
“I’m…”

  
“And honestly I don’t think anyone any one expects you to be fine. If I was in your shoes I would be freaking out. I only moved from New York to DC and it was an adjustment.” Steve blinked at her stunned looking stunned. “Today is apparently not the day where I will talk without rambling.”

  
“I’m ok,” he said after a minute.

  
“Okay,” she nodded. “I have go,” she told him glancing at her watch, "But call me sometime. I’ll introduce you to Monty Python,” she grinned. “Don’t let Clint do it. He’ll talk through all of Holy Grail and ruin all the jokes," she called over her shoulder as she ran out of the room.


	2. The Russian Job

October 2012

 

Steve Rogers sighed and clinked the slowly melting ice cubes in his drink together before downing the contents in one go. He couldn’t get drunk so drinking alone at the bar was good cover. Though he wasn’t sure what for. Fury had provided precious little in the way of details.  
Wear a suit. Show up at 10pm. Blend in. Provide tactical support to S.H.I.E.L.D’s asset. No word on who the asset is or what they’re doing at a anti-land mine fundraiser hosted by the Russian embassy. Just you’ll know when they show.  
Steve had arrived precisely at ten under the guise of meeting a four star general whose grandfather he’d rescued from behind enemy lines. He’d had a brief, awkward conversation with the man. Those conversations were always awkward. And He’d been sitting at the bar since 10:15. No obvious asset in site. He was giving Fury’s asset fifteen more minutes to show before alerting S.H.I.E.L.D that the op was a no go. 

He busied himself clocking potential exits and cursed Fury when he saw Sophie Stark, looking every inch the glamorous socialite, sail through security. He watched carefully as she stood on her toes to press a quick kiss to the guard’s cheek when he returned her small handbag. He’d attended a few events benefiting NY first responders and the reconstruction efforts before leaving for DC. He’d been both alarmed and impressed by Tony’s ability to glad-hand and work a room. A skill he appeared to pass on to his daughter. 

If Steve hadn’t been watching her closely he wouldn’t have noticed her making a beeline for the Russian Ambassador. It would’ve seemed organic the way she flitted through the room. A handshake here. A kiss on the cheek over there. Right until she quite literally bumped into the Ambassador. He heard her greet the man, but even with his hearing he couldn’t make out the foreign words over the din of the crowd. Whatever they discussed the Ambassador seemed pleased. Leaning close to speak into her ear. She laughed in response; her head tilting backwards and her hand coming to rest on the man’s lapel. She replied again and the Ambassador laughed as Sophie moved away and continued her circuit of the room.  
She landed at the bar thirty minutes after entering the room and ordered from the uniformed waiter in quick terse Russian. Handing the man a hundred dollar bill for his trouble. 

“I believe it’s an open bar, Ms. Stark.”

“The cash isn’t for the drink.”

“So you’re Fury’s...” 

“It’s nice to see you, Captain.” She said loudly. Giving him a look that communicated it was anything but. 

“You as well, Ms. Stark,” Steve responded cordially. 

“You kind of suck at blending in,” she told him more quietly. “Covert is not something you excel at, is it?”

“I’m a terrible liar,” he answered tugging at his collar.

“Which is why Fury sent me,” she responded, “It’s only lying if you get caught. Otherwise it’s all just perception,” she said downing her drink and sliding the glass back to the bartender. It was replaced quickly and she took a long drink. “To be fair. You obviously watching me for the last half hour certainly helps.”

“Helps with what?” He sighed frustrated “Why are we even here?”

She blinked at him and rolled her eyes, “We are here because the Director thinks this is a real life Sims game,” she muttered. 

“What?”

“We’re here because Fury is a meddlesome asshole,” she told him downing her drink, her voice hushed “Now dance with me, Captain,” she words were muddled but her eyes were clear despite polishing off two cocktails in quick succession. 

“You’re drunk,” he groused, “I’m calling this off.” She slid closer to him, sliding one hand over his shoulders the other resting on his chest fiddling with a button on his shirt. He stiffened and pulled away. She followed him with the effortless stumble of alcohol induced haze, her head dropping to his shoulder, her posture languid as she sighed against him. It took Steve longer than it should have to realize the arm around him wasn’t loosely draped but rather tightly pressed against his shoulders as if she could hold him in place. 

“I’m not drunk,” her voice was a soft whisper in his ear. 

“Ms. Stark, I really don’t think...”

She huffed out a sigh before speaking, “I’m not drunk,” she repeated, “I just want people to think I am.” She slipped away from him teetering precariously on her heels before placing her hands in his and jerking herself back to standing. “Dance with me, Captain,” her voice carried over the crowd. Her eyes connected with his and he thought if she could stab him she just might. 

“I don’t...” he started 

“Up up, Cap,” her giggle sounded real but none of the mirth reached her eyes, “It’s not polite to leave a lady hanging.” 

Grumbling he stood and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, “Anything for the daughter of a friend,” he answered his tone flat. She sagged against him as he lead her into the dance floor.  
She slid too close and wound her arms around his neck as they spun in slow circles. He tensed when her head dropped to his shoulder again and she sagged into him as if he was the only thing keeping her upright. 

“In about a minute I’m going to go through the door directly behind you,” she told him her voice barely above a whisper, “Look worried when I leave. Wait two minutes and then follow me. Make your concerned face and tell them you want to check on me.”

“What?”

“In about a minute,” she started to repeat herself. 

“I heard you... I just...what...”

“I will tell you what I know,” she answered, “in two minutes.” She took a stumbling step backwards and a hand flew over her mouth, “I’m...sorry...” she stammered through her fingers and dashed passed him and through a door on the far side of the ballroom. 

Steve watched her go and didn’t have to fake the look of confused worry that settled over his face. He stood stock still in the middle of the dance floor staring after her. He moved to follow her, but was waylaid by a smarmy looking businessman. 

“Captain!” The man proclaimed, clapping Steve on the back. Steve felt his shoulders tense under the unfamiliar contact. “That is the befuddled look of a man who has spent too much time in the presence of a Stark.”

“Excuse me?” Steve turned to the man blinking away the confounding expression. “I don’t believe we’ve met...”

“Tiberius Stone,” The man grinned and shook Steve’s hand vigorously. 

“Right....the media guy,” Steve muttered. 

“Viastone is so much more than a media company,” Stone started. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stone,” Steve shook off the man’s hand, “I really should go check on Ms. Stark. I don’t think Tony would ever forgive me if I left his daughter alone and vulnerable.” 

“Captain America reduced to babysitting drunk socialites,” Stone jeered, “What has the world come to?”

“I ask myself that everyday, Mr. Stone,” Steve grit his teeth, “Especially when people imply that looking out for your friends is no longer common place. Excuse me.” Steve stormed towards the door Sophie had exited through. Glowering. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” a guard with a thick Russian accent stepped in front of him, “This area is off limits.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve felt the glower slip from his face and tried to look as concerned as possible, “I’d really like to check on Miss Stark,” he scratched at the back of his neck, “her father will be awfully upset if I let anything happen to her.” 

The guard regarded him suspiciously for a moment but let him pass, “The Ambassador is fond of Ms. Stark, but would prefer she exit without incident.”

The hallway was dimly lit and quiet and every door was tightly closed. He had no clue where Sophie disappeared. He scrubbed a hand over his face and stopped near the first door listening intently for sound from within. He was just moving to the second when Sophie’s dark head popped out from a door at the end of the hall. 

“That was longer than two minutes,” she hissed. Grabbing his arm and pulling him into the room. She closed the door softly behind her.

The office they stood in was large and the large ornately carved desk, heavy bookshelves, and gilt framed painting lent it an opulence, “What are we doing here?” He asked. While he’d been assessing the room, Sophie had made herself at home behind the desk and was typing away at the computer. 

She blinked up at him, “We’re creating a ghost network,” she said with roll of her shoulders.  
“That’s everything you know?” He asked incredulous. 

“That’s everything I know officially,” she sighed and looked up at him from the computer. “Unofficially, I know that the Ambassador’s new brother-in-law is a man named Dmitri Salnikov. He’s a nasty piece of work with a known history of trafficking everything from arms to heroin.”

“Neither of those things seem like they’d put him on SHIELD’s radar.”

“They don’t,” she agreed turning back to her typing, “but rumor has it that the last shipment of arms he trafficked into Moscow was powered with Chitauri tech. And that does interest SHIELD.”

“And the Ambassador is involved?”

“Probably not,” Sophie shrugged, “but Salnikov is a wily bastard and the nerd herd hasn’t been able to pin down his servers. So they’re hoping that Salnikov is trying to involve his brother-in-law and they’ll be able to back hack Salnikov’s...” she stopped. 

“What?”

“Apparently... the Ambassador is involved,” she grabbed her handbag off the desk and rifles through it pulling out a compact mirror. 

Steve started to protest that she looked fine, but she simply opened the case and twisted the casing. It ejected a flat metallic...something. “What is...”

“A flash drive,” she answered succinctly as she plugged it into the side of the computer. “They’re designed to store data,” she explained, “this one is storing the ghost network that the nerds in the tech office developed.” She typed for a few more moments and then unplugged the device. 

“That’s it?” Steve asked. 

“That’s it,” she answered, “Upload the ghost network. Download some files. Get out without getting caught.”

“This seems like a lot of...drama... for something this simple.”

“Ok... one never call an op simple until you’re out and two it only seems like a lot of drama because Fury wants to use us like paper dolls and we had to figure out our plan on the fly.”  
“We didn’t figure out anything,” he pointed out, “I stumbled blindly after you.”

“I’m sorry,” she patted his arm gently as she headed for the door. She stuck her head out and looked back and forth. “Looks like we’re clear. We came in here under the guise that I was drunk and puking,” she sighed, “If you just put your arm around me like you’re practically carrying me they’ll show us to the back exit.” 

“You seem awfully sure,” He commented.

“The Ambassador likes me,” she said with a shrug, “I think remind him of his daughter.”

“That is not why he likes you,” Steve told her. 

“Whatever are you implying, Captain,” she pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense.  
“I’m not implying anything,” he told her, “we should go. I don’t think the Ambassador’s good will extends to you alone in his office.”

“Take me home, Captain,” she let out an exaggerated sigh and slumped against him. He caught her with one arm around her waist. Her head slumped against his side as they exited the office. She stumbled along towards the end of the hall, her eyes half closed and her expression slack. 

“Ona v poryadke?,”* one of the guards asked in clipped Russian. Steve blinked at him. 

“Without incident,” the guard who’d previously stopped him stepped forward. 

“I’m trying,” Steve shrugged helplessly causing Sophie’s head to bobble slightly, “but the only way out of here...” he looked helplessly across the ballroom. 

“Nyet,” the guard hissed, “go back the way you came. Third door on right.”

“Thank you,” Steve’s voice was hushed, “Thank you.” He guided Sophie back into the deserted hall. Following the direction of the guards they eventually exited into a small garden. Steve expected Sophie to disentangle herself from him but she stayed firmly slumped against him. Eyes still heavy-lidded. He guided her through the garden and out past the embassy’s guard station. Nodding helplessly at the guards who chuckled but didn’t stop them. He herded Sophie into a taxi and only after they’d gone two blocks did Sophie move away from him. 

“I need carbs,” She grumbled. Her head resting on the seat back. “Excuse me,” she raised he head and made eye contact with the driver, “Can you take us to the K Street Diner?” 

The driver looked at Steve clearly expecting him to contradict her, “Whatever the lady wants,” He acquiesced. She didn’t move again until they pulled to a stop outside the diner. The silence in the car stretching between them. 

The K Street Diner was a brightly lit and modeled after an old fashioned diner with a long formica countertop and vinyl booths. Sophie slipped into a booth and flipped open a plastic covered menu. She perused it silently. 

“Ms. Stark....”

She popped her head up curiously, “Call me Sophie,” she request, “Ms. Stark makes me feel old.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” he deadpanned. 

“Are you sassing me, Steve Rogers?” 

“Never,” he shook his head, but couldn’t help a small grin, “What are we doing here?”

“Did they not have diners in nineteen forty-five?” She asked

He blinked at her, “Yes of course they...” he trailed off when a middle-aged waitress approached. 

“Evening,” she grinned, “what can I do you for?”

“Coffee,” Sophie answered, “and your largest basket of fries, Steve?”

“Just water,” he sighed wearily. 

“Cream and sugar,” the waitress asked. 

“Just sugar, please,” she smiled sweetly, “When was the last time you ate?” She asked as the waitress moved off. 

“Lunch,” he responded tersely. “Why are we here?” 

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” she told the waitress when the woman returned with their drinks. “Can we add to our order?”

“It’s no problem, darlin,” the waitress waved her off, “What can I get for ya’ll?”

”My friend will have the all-American burger, no onions, cheddar cheese, extra...” she paused and looked at him narrowing her eyes, assessing, “pickles,” she finally nodded. “And that banana milkshake you’re so famous for.” 

“Coming right,” the waitress smiled and headed back towards the kitchen. 

Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths. “I’m not hungry,” he told her flatly. 

“So don’t eat it,” she shrugged and dosed her coffee liberally with sugar from little paper packets. “There’s a homeless shelter a few blocks down, I’m sure we’ll find someone to take it off your hands.”

“Why are we here?” He repeated. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “about before. At the embassy.”

“I...just... what is going on?”

“Our friend was a little light on the details,” she sighed and raked a hand through her hair. It was a gesture he’d seen Tony make frequently when frustrated. “I don’t have the full details, but I got it from SciOps that the person originally attached to this got injured in a field training exercise.”

“I was under the impression you don’t go into the field,” he said taking a drink of his water. 

“Generally I don’t,” she fiddled with the now empty sugar packets as she spoke, tearing them into increasingly small squares, “They didn’t have time to backstop a new cover for an agent. And since I don’t really need an excuse to show up at a political fundraiser...” she scooped all the tiny squares into a pile. 

Steve nodded as she spoke, “So he sent you because you’re....”

“Because I’m a Stark. Who’s dating the first son and has a reputation as a shallow party girl...”  
“I was going to say because you’re politically connected. Fury uses that to SHIELD’s advantage somehow?”

“Yeah, story of my life,” her voice was dull, her mouth twisted in an unhappy grimace. “You do what you can, right?” she cast him a blinding smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Right,” he nodded slowly unsure what to say, but was saved further response when the waitress returned. She deposited the largest milkshake he’d ever seen in front of him. It was served in an old preserves jar, the kind his Ma used to make pickles in, and was overflowing with whipped cream, crushed cookies, and what looked like chips made from bananas. “I know you ordered a banana milkshake, but this seems...”

“Excessive?” She chuckled as she doused the fries the waitress dropped in front of her with ketchup. 

“That’s one word for it,” he said, relieved that the burger that had been placed in front of him looked normal. He peeled the top of the burger off before he remembered, “how’d you know about the onions and the pickles?” he asked. 

“Excuse me?” 

“When you ordered the burger? How did you know?”

“You pulled the onions off your sandwich in the cafeteria,” she shrugged. 

“What?”

“The first time we met,” she grinned “you were eating in the cafeteria at SHIELD and everyone was staring.”

“We spoke for two minutes,” he blinked. 

“You had pulled the onions off your sandwich,” she shrugged again. 

“That’s observant,” he told her. 

“SHIELD school,” she answered with a small real smile. 

“You mentioned,” he chuckled, “and the pickles?”

“Hmm…”

“How’d you know I like pickles?”

“It’s…” she paused, “Gabe Jones used to talk about it,” she told him finally. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond. “He always told us it was something you had in common. Your abnormal love for weird pickled vegetables.”

“It’s not weird!” he argued. 

“I didn’t say it was,” she laughed, “I’m just paraphrasing Gabe.”

“I didn’t realize you knew him...Gabe I mean…” he swallowed thickly. 

“Yeah…” she sighed, “I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up when we talked before. Aunt Peggy introduced Tony to The Howlies when I went to live with him. His own personal Dad database.”

“I’m sure they loved that…” he coughed. 

“The other kids and I used to call them the grandpa brigade….they’re part of the reason I’m so personal with you. I sometimes feel like I know you because I’ve spent hours listening to the Grandads talk about you. I can try to reign it in if it bothers you…”

“It’s… I don’t mind. It might be nice to hear about them sometime.”

“Sure,” she agreed. 

“So...I’m assuming, despite the limited information available, there was a plan tonight?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “currently the plan involves more coffee and demolishing this basket of fries.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll call an Uber and you’ll escort me home,” she answered as if it was the most reasonable plan in the world. 

“I think I’m missing something,” he said blinking. 

“You escorted me from the party because I was intoxicated,” she sighed, “I can’t go straight to our mutual friend. That’s like in the things i learned from James Bond handbook. So we eat our food. You take me home, because you’re nothing if not a gentleman, and a tomorrow we both go back to work like nothing happened.”

“And the files?” He asked

“Unfortunately, I lost an antique compact in the Uber that will be picking us up,” she shrugged. 

“That seems irresponsible.”

“It does seem that way...” she let her voice trail off and took a long sip of her coffee. 

“Clever,”

“Indeed,” she smiled from behind her mug. 

“Just two questions... what’s an Uber and who is James Bond?”

 

***

Steve made it a point to leave his office for lunch at least twice a week. It was an easy way to show his S.H.I.E.L.D issue therapist that he was adjusting and “getting out.” His first few attempts had been, well, awful. But the longer he’d done it the easier it got. He still mostly sat by himself, but he usually carried a book or a newspaper and a notebook to jot down notes.  
He was on his way back to the STRIKE team office when he saw Sophie. She was deep in conversation with a junior agent with a Scottish accent and another female agent in a lab coat was emphatically nodding along. “Miss Stark,” he nodded at her as he passed. 

“Captain Rogers,” she returned his greeting with a smile, “Have a good afternoon.” She resumed her conversation and he continued back to the office to prepare for a mission brief.  
Nothing had really changed, but another friend face certainly never darkened anyone’s day.

 

Notes:  
* Ona v poryadke- Is she ok? (I used Google Translate for the Russian….so take it with a grain of salt.)

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a science person and trying to research SCIENCE! gives me a headache. Any science speak that may or may not happen is made up of science words that sound smart when smashed together.


End file.
